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The Merry Matchmakers 




Tiflio, o QtJUt 




The Merry Matchmakers 

A STORY OF SWEDEN 


BY 

EVA M. KRISTOFFERSEN 

• # 

Author of 

HANS CHRISTIAN OF ELSINORE 
CYCLONE GOES A-VIKING, etc. 



Pictured by 

HEDVIG COLLIN 


JUNIOR PRESS BOOKS 

ALBERT WHITMAN & CO. 

CHICAGO 
19 4 0 







Copyright, 1940, by 
Albert Whitman & Company 


.foil 

Me 

C.oj.'j 2, 



RECEIVED 

SEP 2 7 1940 

COPYRIGHT OPFICE 


Lithographed in the U.S.A. 

1.44726 

(A 













To 

My Great Dane 




V . 


V 


















TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 


Early Midsummer Morning 11 

How Matches Are Made 17 

An Evening at Home.23 

A Secret Meeting.29 

Aunt Greta Marie Arrives. 37 

A Swedish Dinner Party 46 

Bo Can Do Tricks.57 

About *a Pancake Inn 65 

Bugs on the Bushes Buys Paint 73 

Petter Has the Measles 81 

Grand Opening Day 87 

Ollie and Tillia Take Their Shares 91 
































LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 


Must be time to get up!.10 

In their hands they clutched flowers and leaves.15 

“Here is your pass to the factory”.19 

Tillia started winding up a woolly ball.27 

So they marched down Long Street.31 

“My Princess Recipes,” read Tillia.35 

Ollie watched from the outside.39 

He put his right foot on his left knee.43 

‘"You know how fond I am of my checkered suit” 47 

Both were busy tackling the cheeses of many lands 51 

"‘Watch out!” cried Ollie and Tillia.55 

“Half of twelve is—what?” he blinked.59 

“Grandma is going to have a meeting before supper” 63 

“We should like to open a small pancake inn”.67 

“Please, Father, will you help us paint an enormous 

golden match?” .71 

""Quite forgot that old Bugs was standing here”.75 

‘"Naw! Naw!” cried Bugs in dismay.79 

Petter appeared with a tiny glass showcase 83 

""Oh, will I, Aunt Greta Marie!” cried Tillia.94 































Must be time to get up! 



































EARLY MIDSUMMER MORNING 

L ITTLE Tillia Jonsson blinked first one sleepy eye and then the 
other. Must be time to get up! The fat round musical alarm 
J clock on the table said so. There it began all over: tingaling— 
ling—ling—g—g. Tillia started to hum the March of the Wooden 
Soldiers, in rhythm with the tinkling clock. But of a sudden the 
silvery sounds had stopped, and out of bed jumped Tillia. 

She opened the door into the adjoining room. “Ollie,” she called 
softly, “Ollie! ” Not a stir, not a rustle. So the girl tiptoed across the 
floor and touched her twin brother’s pink cheek with one little finger. 
“Ollie. Ollie Jonsson! It’s midsummer day, don’t you know? The 
Maypole—” 

“The Maypole?” Quick as an arrow Ollie was out and on his feet. 
“Where is the Maypole?” 

“Sh—h! We must not wake the others. The Maypole is in the 
woods. Let’s hurry and get dressed and be off.” 

“All right,” said Ollie. 


[ii] 











Bright daylight shone through the windows, although it was only 
five o’clock in the morning. For three whole hours the sun had been 
up, and the birds knew it. They sang with all their might, for they 
were Swedish birds. Perhaps it was a drop of ancient Viking blood 
that gave them voices so strong and bold? 

“Ready?” winked Tillia. 

“Ready,” nodded Ollie. 

The two headed straight for the kitchen, but on the threshhold 
they stood stock-still. “But Grr—rrandma!” they burst out in one 
voice. 

“Are you not in bed anymore? It’s early!” Ollie’s eyes were as 
round as wooden plates. 

“Hush,” beamed Grandma, “I am mixing the batter now, so as to 
have my tower higher than ever.” 

The two stepped nearer. They blinked at each other. “Pancakes,” 
they giggled, “pancakes for breakfast.” Nothing in the world tasted 
better than the kind of pancakes Grandma could bake. 

“Here is a bite for you, or you might starve before breakfast.” 
Grandma smiled. “If you want to get a Maypole and everything, you 
will have to scuttle.” 

Tillia took a slice of hard Swedish rye bread and broke it into a 
sky-blue bowl. Ollie broke another slice into an apple-green bowl. 
Then they poured milk over it and set to it with their spoons. In a 
few minutes the sky-blue and apple-green bowls were empty. 

“Goodbye, Grandma.” 

“Goodbye, twins. Give my love to the birch woods.” 

“We will, we will,” laughed Ollie and Tillia, as they skipped down 
the steps of the house, into the fresh morning air. 

“Meouw—meouw,” greeted them outside. A black and white kit¬ 
ten rubbed her fur against Ollie’s legs. 

Good morning, Jonas,” cried his master. “Please stay at home. 
We are in a hurry.” 


“Meouw,” answered Jonas and obediendy drew back. On the sun- 
spotted doormat he curled up into a round fluffy ball. 

“He looks black and white and dirty, your cat does,” said Tillia 
severely. “He needs a bath.” 

“I s’pose he does,” sighed Ollie. 

The two put their best legs forward. Soon they had reached the 
Market Square. A horse hitched to a cart stood by the curb at their 
right. Ollie and Tillia nudged each other. “Maybe he will give us 
a ride?” 

A long man with long legs was busy smelling his honeysuckle 
and jasmine hedge. “My, they are looking fine and they are smelling 
good,” he chuckled to himself. All over town this man was known 
as Bugs on the Bushes, or Bugs, for short. He was a gardener by trade. 

“Good morning, Bugs. We are going to hunt for leaves and a 
Maypole.” 

The gardener raised his hand in greeting. “Good morning to you! 
Well, no bugs on the bushes, children,” he rambled, “no bugs this 
day.” He sounded almost disappointed. “But what I want to ask you 
is, may we take you to the woods, my horse and I?” 

“Oh, Bugs,” cried Tillia delighted, “if you will do that, I’ll share 
my pancakes with you. Grandma is baking some for breakfast. 

“Pancakes?” grinned Bugs, “hm—m! Let’s shake hands and call 
it a bargain.” 

So Tillia and the gardener shook hands and called it a bargain. 
Bugs on the Bushes had no wife to bake him pancakes, and he had no 
children of his own whom he could drive to the woods. But he did 
have a horse and a cart to take him wherever he wished to go. 

The three climbed into the cart. Humpety-dumpety-hump they 
rumbled over the cobbles of the little Swedish match town of Kalmar. 
These cobbles had been old before Columbus sailed for America. So 
now they were very, very old indeed. Soon the Market Square with 
its stately Town Hall and the even more stately Cathedral were left 

[ Hi 


behind. Not long after the border of the nearby woods was reached. 

Among the silver birches a beehive appeared to swarm. Only 
there were no bees gathering honey, but boys and girls gathering 
leaves. 

“Hi, everybody! Good midsummer morning to you,” called out 
the twins and Bugs. 

“Hi, Bugs! Hi, Ollie and Tillia Jonsson!” replied a joyful chorus. 

“Oh, Petter!” cried Ollie excited, “are you here too?” 

“Hold a match under your eyes, and maybe you can see me 
better,” teased Petter. “How is the family?” 

“Very well, thank you,” answered Ollie politely. “Grandma is 
baking pancakes for breakfast.” 

“Pancakes?” grinned Petter, “hm-m! Have you found a fine, 
tall Maypole yet for your garden, Ollie? See here, I have two. I’ll 
give you one of them.” 

“If you will do that,” rejoiced Ollie, “I’ll share my pancakes with 
you.” 

“That is a bargain, Ollie Jonsson. Shake hands on it.” 

So Ollie and his friend shook hands on it. Petter was the young¬ 
est matchmaker in the factory where Mr. Jonsson was an engineer. 

“Well, are you ready to go home?” called Bugs on the Bushes 
after awhile. “I’ll be glad to take you, Petter, and as many others as 
want to hang on. Let’s load her up.” 

Petter threw three back somersaults, and then he helped to load 
her up. Soon the small cart was stuffed to the top with greenery 
and Maypoles, boys and girls sprinkled in between. Bugs flung a 
wreath around the horse s neck and he stuck little branches on each 
side of the harness. 

“Hold on, Ollie-boy. Hold on, Tillia-girl. There—cluck—off 
she goes.” 

With beating hearts and shining eyes they nestled among the 
fresh green branches. In their hands they clutched flowers and leaves. 

[ 14] 



In their hands they clutched flowers and leaves 




















“I am hungry,” exploded Ollie of a sudden. 

“I am hungry too,” the cry sprang up. And like wildfire it went 
from mouth to mouth, “I am hungry, I am hungry too.” 

“Ma’s little pigs we’re all of us,” roared Bugs at the top of his 
lungs. 

And Tillia followed up the melody at once, “All of us, all of us—” 

A second later the rumble of the wheels was drowned by merry 
singing voices: “Ma’s little pigs we’re all of us, all of us, and me too, 
me too, and you too! ” 


ij i r n i 11 j [ i j, 



Down an avenue of blooming chestnut trees the midsummer lorry 
rolled. Overhead, the branches almost met. Like enormous candles 
thousands of white blossoms pointed heavenward. 

Slowly the cart turned into Market Square and then into Long 
Street, where the Jonssons lived in a frame house, with a dark-shingled 
roof. 

“I smell pancakes,” Tillia sniffed. “Hurry, Bugs. I’ll ask Grand¬ 
ma if she has baked enough pancakes for the whole load of us.” 

“Get on, horse,” Bugs clucked with his tongue. “Get on. Maybe 
Grandma Jonsson needs extra help.” 

“Whoa! Whoa! ” 

At that moment Grandma appeared in the doorway. “There is 
the party I was waiting for,” said she. “I had so many pancakes I 
did not know what to do! Please, come in and join us, all of you.” 

[16] 









HOW MATCHES ARE MADE 


Not many days later Ollie and Tillia stood watching a ship come 
into the harbor. They had stood there for a long time. Big and little 
boats were dipping across the blue. A steamboat whistled and sailors 
shouted. But what held their attention most, was a towboat with a 
long line of barges behind it. The barges were carrying wood. But 
it was not ordinary wood. It was aspenwood. And the twins knew it. 

“It’s going to be matches, every bit of it,” Tillia pointed out 
wisely. 

“Father says that aspenwood is best for making matches,” Ollie 
added. “He says that some wood is too soft and some too hard and 
some too rough and some too full of knots, but that aspenwood is 
just exactly right.” 

“U-huh,” nodded Tillia. “Let’s go and meet Father, shall we?” 

“Yes, let’s.” 

So they turned away from the harbor and walked through the 
town. At last they had reached the entrance to the grounds of the 
match factory. A guard with a red-brown beard stepped forward. 

[i7] 











“Well, well,” he called out surprised. “If they aren’t the young 
Jonssons! You have not been around for a long time. What may I 
do for you, if you please?” His red-brown beard quivered excitedly, 
as the three shook hands with one another. 

“We should like to see Father,” spoke up Tillia. 

“That’s what I thought,” smiled the old guard. “Here is your 
pass to the factory. And here comes Petter to show you up.” 

Upon seeing the twins Petter’s face lit up with pleasure. “Good 
day, good day,” he cried, “glad to be of service to you. I shall never 
forget the midsummer feast at your house, pancakes and all. Were 
they good!” 

Ollie and Tillia snickered. Each clung tightly to one of Petter’s 
broad paws. 

“Now, who’ll knock?” Petter pointed at the stern dark door to 
Mr. Jonsson’s office. 

“I will.” Tillia knocked timidly. There was no answer from 
within. 

“May I?” ventured Ollie. Tap, tap, tap, hammered the little 
hollow sounds. But again no answer. 

“This is strange,” declared Petter. “I’ll try.” Bang! Bang! Bang! 

“Come in!” 

Petter shot a proud glance at his companions. “Necessary to make 
one’s self heard, see?” he muttered, as he shoved the children ahead 
of himself into the small but airy room. He followed and closed 
the stern dark door. 

“Good evening, Father.” 

Good evening. Ahem.” Mr Jonsson whirled around in his 
chair. His desk was covered with papers and with pencils. He pulled 
a watch from his vest pocket. “Extraordinary,” he exclaimed, “time 
to go home and I have not finished my day’s work yet. And here 
stand my son and daughter to take their old father home. Well, 
Petter, give me half an hour, and I shall be ready. Dip the youngsters 

[18] 

















































into the match business meanwhile. After all it is important for them 
to grow up with matches around them. Understand what I mean? 

“Yes, sir,” bowed Petter. 

“Good-bye, Father,” waved Ollie and Tillia. 

As soon as they were out in the hall, Ollie gave Petter’s hand a 
hearty squeeze. “You know what, Petter? You are my friend. I 
want to be like you.” 

“By the order of the North Star,” exclaimed Petter, he was that 
surprised. “A general like me?” 

Now it was Ollie’s turn to be surprised. “Are you a general 
when you are not making matches?” He had never heard of such a 
thing. Neither had Tillia. A deep frown appeared on her forehead, 
as she followed the others down the long hall. 

“Well, it’s this way,” Petter told them. “I am both at the same 
time, but mostly a general. You see, I am needed everywhere.” He 
threw out his chest. “This morning Mr. Jonsson, your father, said 
to me, Tetter, the chief left two minutes ago. He is wanted on the 
telephone. It is important. Run after him, and use your legs like a 
couple of drumsticks.’ So I did, and everything went fine. And 
yesterday I helped in the log-peeling room. And the other day I was 
sent to find our matchboxes with different labels on them, for some¬ 
body’s collection.” He laughed happily. “Yes, I do learn the match 
business from the bottom up. Still want to be a general like me, 
Ollie?” 

The boy’s eyes sparkled. “And how!” he said. 

Just then the three entered a room that was filled with machines. 

Workers in leather aprons were busy at the machines. 

“Ever been in here before?” asked Petter. 

Tillia shook her head. “No. Father told us visitors were not 
allowed in here.” 

Petter looked a bit uneasy. “We had better hurry through then. 
Of course, neither visitors nor photographers are allowed in the fac- 

[20] 


tory. They might steal the secrets of how Swedish matches are made.” 
And he added brightly, “But you are not real visitors! You are of 
the Jonsson family.” He walked a few steps ahead. “Look. This 
machine with the giant knife blades cuts the wood into exactly the 
thickness of a match. The chopping machine then cuts those sheets 
into strips as wide as a match is long. Understand? Further on they 
are cut into sticks—” 

“Like jackstraws,” ventured Ollie, “only, they are all as short as 
matches.” 

“Right,” smiled Petter, continuing with his story of how matches 
are made. “The sticks are fed into those big holders over there.” 

“They look like scrubbing brushes,” giggled Tillia. 

Petter nodded and went on. “This long, long chain of holders 
slides along a great many rollers. And then one end of the sticks 
is dipped into something that makes a match burn, whenever you 
strike it on the side of the box. You know, don’t you, that all Swedish 
matches are safety matches? The boxes are filled by this machine 
here.” Petter paused to examine it more closely. “Well, that should 
be about enough for today,” he concluded. “Let’s stroll back to the 
office.” 

“You certainly know much about matches.” Both Ollie and 
Tillia sighed. 

“I know much, much more about them,” bragged Petter, encour¬ 
aged. “I have read all the books on matches in the library. Listen 
to this: The Swedish Match Company has branch offices in about 
forty foreign countries. Two persons out of every three in the world 
use Swedish safety matches. And imagine, one matchmaking ma¬ 
chine can turn out forty thousand filled boxes in one hour.” 

“Oh, Petter! Please excuse me,” Tillia groaned. “It is swimming 
in my head. These numbers are dreadful. I have forgotten every one.” 

“I too,” and Ollie wondered why it was so easy to forget big 
numbers. 


[ 21 ] 


“Never mind,” Petter said soothingly. “Some day you might think 
of what I told you, anyway. A tiny bit of it might stick in your 
heads, for the story of matches is a wonder. To the farthest ends 
of the earth they are sent. Strange people strike them in strange 
cities. A tiny flame, a puff, a glow—then it’s gone and a new one 
must be used.” Petter had grown very serious. “But one thing you 
must always remember: Never, never light a match in play or care¬ 
lessly throw it away! A single match may set the world afire—” 
At this moment Mr. Jonsson stepped out of his office, ready to go 
home. It was clear that he had heard the final words of Petter’s 
talk, for his eyes roamed over the puzzled, solemn faces of his children. 

“Extraordinary. It is what I was thinking of myself,” he said. 
“A single match—” He broke off and turned to leave. “Well, Petter, 
I do not doubt but that you have given them a good dose of the busi¬ 
ness. Good evening, and thank you.” 

“Good evening, sir,” bowed Petter politely, “thank you, sir.” 





















AN EVENING AT HOME 


Ollie was pondering how nice it was to have had breakfast in 
bed. It had only been this morning that Mother and Father and 
Grandma and Tillia had served him his breakfast in bed, from the 
holiday-Viking-ship tray. And it had not been because he was sick, 
oh no; but because it was July 29th and his name day. The Viking- 
ship tray had been laden with cakes and buns and pretzels and with 
gingerbread pigs and little dishes of jams and jellies. Yes, it was won¬ 
derful to have a fuss made over one’s self. And it was fun that his 
name day came in July and Tillia’s in March and their birthday in 
January. 

But now it was evening and his name day almost gone. A soft 
clatter as from the clearing away of dishes, sounded from the kitchen. 
Ollie and his father were alone in the room, but Mr. Jonsson never 
said a word. He was sitting in the old pearwood chair by the window, 
reading his paper and puffing from his bulldog pipe like a locomotive. 

[23] 







Ollie opened the piano. He struck the very highest note, in the 
right hand corner— pinggg —and then he moved slowly downward. 

“It sounds like a music box,” he mused, “almost like the wooden 
soldiers marching in Tillia’s alarm clock. Almost, but not quite.” 

He raised his head, and his eyes fell upon the picture on the wall 
above the piano. There sat the little girl in her ruffled party frock. 
Her hands rested on the keys of a piano. And underneath the picture 
a little verse was printed: 

“I can’t play, 

I can’t sing, 

But I can try 
Like anything.” 

Ollie jerked up his shoulders. He, too, could try like anything, 
indeed! Down*, down, down the scales his fingers lumbered, “Boom 
—boom—boom,” until they had reached the last and lowest note. 
Ollie put his foot on the pedal. “Zzzzum-mmm-mmm,” the tune 
sang, and then it was struck again, and again, “Zzzum-mmm- 
mmm-m.” 

“Mercy, child,” interrupted Grandma’s voice, “one might think 
a bunch of airplanes had been let loose right here in this room. 
Your poor father! But he seems to be enjoying himself.” Grandma 
laughed softly. 

As if he had been pricked by a bee, Ollie jumped up from his 
bench. “Please, Grandma, play to us,” he begged, “please, do.” He 
felt very hot; no, it was cold, and now hot again. 

“Gladly,” agreed Grandma. “I will play you a song.” 

In an instant the whole family had gathered around the piano. 
Grandma struck the chords of the national hymn, “Thou ancient, 
thou breezy, thou mountainous North—” And the clear, high sing¬ 
ing voices were almost drowned in Mr. Jonsson’s solitary roaring 
bass. When the final tune had rung out, Grandma lightly closed the 
piano. 


[24] 


“Thank you, Grandma,” said all the Jonssons. 

“Thank you for singing for me,” twinkled Grandma. “Tillia, 
your voice is growing more and more beautiful,” she told the girl. 
“Perhaps some day you will be another Jenny Lind, the Swedish 
nightingale? Who knows?” 

“I, a Swedish nightingale?” Tillia wondered. Her eyes began to 
glint at the very thought of it. For a moment she stood quite still. 
“A Swedish nightingale,” she whispered in a low, thrilled voice. 
“A singer, I! I wish it could come true.” 

Meanwhile the family had grouped themselves around the birch- 
wood table, each with something to do. Tillia started winding up a 
woolly ball, while Ollie held the yarn for her. Mrs. Jonsson was 
weaving fancy apron strings on a little handloom. And Grandma 
made her knitting needles fly. She was knitting a pair of mittens 
with two thumbs, so that they might be turned for longer wear. 
They were for herself. 

Mr. Jonsson busied himself by dabbling in water colors, for he 
loved to paint. “You know,” he said, casting swift glances at his wife, 
“your hair was much lighter, when we first met. It was the yellowest, 
goldenest hair I had ever seen. Extraordinary.” 

“Was it?” smiled Mrs. Jonsson. “That must have been because I 
was very young when we first met.” 

“Mother,” cried Tillia excited, “where did you first meet? Please, 
please, tell us.” 

“Perhaps Father will tell you,” suggested Mrs. Jonsson. “I am a 
bit tired and should prefer to be a listener instead.” 

Mr. Jonsson looked up startled. “So you are tired,” he repeated 
sadly. “Do you know what is the matter? I think you need a vacation, 
a real, long vacation.” He spread the bristles of his paintbrush flat 
and flatter on the paper, in a thoughtful manner. “If only we could 
lay a few extra pennies aside now and then, we would leave the old 
home town next summer for a spell.” 

[25] 


Before anyone had time to put in a word, Mr. Jonsson changed 
his talk and rushed on. “But here is the answer to your question, 
Tillia. Your mother and I first met in the lumber country, up north.” 

Grandma nodded and smiled as if she knew all about it. 

Mr. Jonsson chuckled. “Do I ever remember that jam of logs! 
Imagine, twins, your mother and I were watching a jam of a million 
logs. It was marvellous. Those poor frightened logs fought like a 
herd of wild animals. How the loggers went after them with their 
poles, to restore peace and order!” 

“Yes, it was a thrilling experience,” Mrs. Jonsson agreed, “and I 
should not mind going back there some time.” 

All this while Ollie had done some deep thinking. Now he could 
hold on no longer. “Does a general earn much money, Father?” he 
asked, with his heart in his throat. 

“A general, Ollie?” Mr. Jonsson lifted his brows. “A general in 
the army you mean, son?” 

“No,” Ollie hastened to correct himself, “in the match factory. A 
general like Petter. You see, I want to be like him. And maybe, I 
could start tomorrow and earn money for—for a vacation?” He swal¬ 
lowed hard, fixing his gaze on his father. 

Oh, you gallant little knight,” cried Mrs. Jonsson, and her chin 
quivered. 

But Mr. Jonsson shook his head. “This is a fine idea, my boy. 

I am pleased. Very pleased. But I must tell you that the law will not 
have very young ones working in the factory.” 

“Petter is young! He isn’t a grown-up, is he?” ventured Ollie, 
excited. 

‘Not exactly perhaps. Still, he is fourteen, and that is older than 
you are. But pluck up your courage, young man. The years have a 
way of racing by with seven-mile boots on their feet. I shall keep your 
plans for the future in mind. All right, Ollie?” 

A small whispered yes was all that Ollie could muster. The future 

[26] 



Tillia started winding up a woolly ball 





was entirely too far away, in spite of the years that had seven-mile 
boots on their feet. 

Tillia had been wriggling on her chair for at least ten minutes, 
wanting to talk. “Maybe I could sing,” she now burst out, “and Bugs 
could accompany me on his accordion? And they could pay for listen¬ 
ing, maybe?” 

“I wonder who ‘they’ are, Tillia?” Mrs. Jonsson sounded doubtful. 
She rolled her strip of weaving together, for bedtime had arrived. 
“You make me think of the organ grinders walking up and down the 
streets, up and down and down and up. But that is not how you 
meant it, Tillia. You must tell us more about it another day. Look at 
Grandma! Even she seems to be having something up her sleeve.” 

“She certainly has,” chuckled Grandma in great glee. “We will 
have a secret meeting one of these days, the twins and I. Good night, 
everybody.” 

“Goodnight—” 

“Tr—rr—” 

They stopped short, for the doorbell had rung. Uncannily it 
jangled through the house. 

Mr. Jonsson hurried down the steps. In a second he was back, 
waving a telegram. He tore it open and read aloud: 

ARRIVE IN KALMAR SATURDAY NOON WITH MY ADOPTED SON 

GRETA MARIE 

Of a sudden the room was filled with loud and cheery exclama¬ 
tions: 

“Aunt Greta Marie from Stockholm! ” 

“She has adopted a boy. Oh, dear, what next?” 

“But she’ll be welcome, very welcome! ” 


[28] 


A SECRET MEETING 


The next few days passed slowly, very slowly. Had they a lump 
of lead tied to their heels? Ollie and Tillia had a mind to believe 
it. Tuesday—Wednesday—Thursday. And all the while two things 
hung in the air like huge questions to be solved. One of them was 
Aunt Greta Marie’s visit with her adopted son. And the other one 
concerned the secret meeting which Grandma had promised the 
twins. 

When Friday came around, they thought they could not wait 
much longer. So early in the afternoon they pulled Grandma by her 
embroidered apron strings. They pulled and pulled her into the 
farthest corner of their large playroom. The pictures on the walls 
stared at them in surprise, and so did the toys on the shelves, and 
even the books. 

“Grandma,” whispered Tillia, “couldn’t you please arrange for our 
secret meeting today?” 

“Then we would know about it before they come,” added Ollie 
eagerly. “You know whom I mean.” 

[ 29] 









“Hmblinked Grandma, “hm ” The sun was dancing on her 
silky white hair. “Shouldn’t we wait until they have left again?” 

“Oh, no!” cried Ollie and Tillia in dismay. “Perhaps they will 
stay until next year?” 

Grandma fixed her glance on the daffodil-colored curtains of the 
room. “So you think that to call a meeting today is very important?” 

“Very” 

“That settles it. Your mother will be gone shopping for awhile 
this afternoon. Come to my room at three o’clock sharp. But remem¬ 
ber, that what I have in mind is only a plan, and I shall need your 
help from beginning to end. Even then we might not be able to 
make it work.” 

“No?” Ollie shook his head, round-eyed and round-mouthed. 

“No,” said Grandma, “I warn you. It all depends, it all depends, 
on all of us! And now I must hurry and cook my applesauce.” She 
slipped through a crack of the broad sliding door that led into the 
family’s living room. 

The twins skipped out of the other door, into the hall. 

“What shall we do until it’s three o’clock?” asked Ollie. 

“See if Bugs on the Bushes is at home,” replied Tillia promptly. 

So they took each other’s hands and marched down Long Street. 

“You know, if Grandma’s plan does not work, I’ll earn vacation 
money anyway,” Tillia said to Ollie. 

“How?” Ollie could not imagine how. 

“I can be a saleslady. I’ll weave baskets and put flowers into them 
and sell them,” explained Tillia. “Or I’ll catch crayfish and sell them, 
or I’ll bake cookies and sell them.” 

“Who will buy them?” asked Ollie astonished. 

“Oh, somebody.” Tillia scowled. “Anybody. Most everybody.” 

But Ollie had grave doubts. “If I cannot be a general until I am 
as big as Petter, you cannot be a saleslady until you are as big as 
Petter. See?” This sounded sensible indeed, but not to Tillia. 

[30] 


J/rdr/f (o/fisyo 


So they marched down hong Street 













“Maybe I can be one anyway,” she reasoned. “I am a girl, and 
you are a boy. You are not as tall as I am either. You are fat.” 

This was too much for Ollie. “Mother says I am not fat,” he cried. 
“She says I am round and only an inch shorter than you are. Wait 
until I have grown as tall as—as a Maypole.” 

“Ha—ha—ha—ha!” Tillia shook with laughter, and Ollie could 
not help but join her. 

“Ha—ha—ha, it does a body good to hear so hearty a laugh,” 
sounded a voice from behind the honeysuckle and jasmine hedge. 

“Good day to you, Bugs,” shouted the children. “May we stay 
with you until almost three o’clock, please?” 

“Mighty glad to have you,” invited Bugs on the Bushes. “Let’s 
have a chat, the three of us. Here are half a dozen chairs to sit on. 
And I will light a pipe, if you don’t mind. Make yourselves comfort¬ 
able, young friends. These are plain but sturdy chairs. They’ll not 
break down from under you, not if you weighed three hundred 
pounds.” 

Ollie and Tillia each thumped on to one of the sturdy chairs. 

“You see, they are my inheritance from my father,” Bugs declared. 
“I have ten times as many stored away in the attic, and tables too.” 

“Did you have so many children at your house?” asked Ollie. 

“Beg pardon? Many children? I am afraid I do not understand.” 

“He means children to sit on those chairs, don’t you, Ollie?” Tillia 
knew her brother. Ollie nodded his head. 

A huge smile passed over Bugs’ face. “Heaven forbid,” he cried 
out. “It’s coffeehouse furniture, from a little hotel. My father had a 
restaurant, and I was brought up in it. But now I am a gardener.” 

“Oh,” said Ollie. 

“Our aunt is coming tomorrow,” announced Tillia lightly. “She 
has an adopted son, and they live in Stockholm. Our aunt’s first name 
is Greta Marie, and her last name is Persson. But we don’t know the 
name of her adopted son.” 

[ 32 ] 


“Adopted?” mumbled Bugs, and his pipe nearly dropped from his 
mouth. 

“The telegram says so,” continued Tillia. “And Mother says that 
Aunt Greta Marie is her sister, and that she has no husband and that 
she sings in foreign cities. When I am big I’ll sing in foreign cities 
too.” 

“I won’t,” said Ollie dreamily. “Petter won’t either. A general 
never sings.” 

“Unusual,” concluded Bugs on the Bushes, puzzled. “Quite un¬ 
usual. But now it’s almost three o’clock.” 

The two scrambled to their feet. 

“Here, wait a second. Take a few sweet peas to the family. They 
like them.” With loving care Bugs bent over his flowers and picked 
the nicest he could see. There were flowers all around him, huge, 
enormous ones, in all the colors of the rainbow. It was the Swedish 
summer sun of bright days and of white nights that made them grow 
so tall and beautiful. 

“There you are.” 

“Thank you so much, Bugs. Grandma promised to have a secret 
meeting with us. Good-bye.” 

“A funny world this is,” Bugs muttered after the children, as he 
watched them run across the Market Square. 

Out of breath and just as the grandfather clock in the hall struck 
three times, they knocked at the door to Grandma’s room. A twin¬ 
kling later they were grouped around the little round mahogany table. 

“Here is the cookie jar to keep up our courage. Please, have one.” 

“Thank you, Grandma.” 

“I should like to show you something rare now,” announced the 
old lady. She unlocked the glass door of her bookcase and removed 
from it a volume bound in blue velvet. Three yellow crowns were 
engraved in the upper right corner. “You cannot imagine how precious 
this is to me.” Her voice sounded rich and warm. 


Ollie and Tillia stuck their noses together as they handled the 
treasure. They patted the velvet binding and ran a timid finger over 
the yellow crowns. 

“Look inside of it,” urged Grandma. She watched their faces 
closely. And what she saw was such a mixture of astonishment and 
wonder that she burst into ripples of laughter. 

“P-a-n-c-a-k-e-s,” spelled Ollie under his breath. The fancy letters 
were painted red and black with gold decorations. 

“My Princess’ Recipes,” read Tillia. She turned the pages. Yes, 
there they were. One recipe after another appeared on the brittle, 
yellowing sheets, in strange old-fashioned writings. “Are they all of 
pancakes?” she finally ventured. 

“Yes,” replied Grandma, “nothing but pancakes. Put the album 
aside for awhile, and I shall tell you its history. When my great- 
great grandmother was young, she spent most of her days at the 
Swedish king’s palace, for she was First Lady Cook of the royal 
kitchen. Now, there also lived a little princess at the palace, and my 
great-great grandmother loved her dearly. By and by this little prin¬ 
cess grew up. And imagine, the more she grew up, the more fond 
she became of eating—pancakes! She wanted them every morning for 
breakfast and every night for supper. And so the First Lady Cook 
and the undercooks were kept on their toes hunting far and wide for 
new and old recipes, that their princess might be pleased.” 

“It made her tired to have plain pancakes with syrup every day, 
didn’t it?” asked Ollie with dancing eyes. 

“Yes indeed,” Grandma chuckled. “So this album contains my 
great-great grandmother’s recipes, as she gathered them for her little 
princess. You will find them for pancakes baked with apples, raisins, 
blueberries, cloudberries, with sweet cream or sour cream and with or 
without everything else under the sun.” 

“That’s why you can make such extra good pancakes,” cried Tillia 
of a sudden. 


[34] 



“My Princess Recipes,” read Tillia 











“Exactly,” twinkled Grandma. She took a deep breath. “What 
would you think, if we were to start a little pancake inn, serving 
pancakes and coffee and nothing else?” 

“Where?” asked Ollie. 

“How?” asked Tillia. 

“That is the trick,” said Grandma, “where and how. It cannot 
be done overnight, of course. We must first do some thinking and 
then be very practical. We shall need a large room and brightly 
painted furniture. And we shall have to invent a name for our inn 
and paint a signboard. But what we will need most of all is your 
parents’ permission! Your father is the master of the house, and your 
mother keeps the home fires burning. Each one of us will have to 
do his share. And then hurrah for a vacation! What do you say to it?” 

“We say that you are the best Grandma in the world.” The twins 
were bubbling with excitement. 

“May we eat as many pancakes as we want to, when we have a 
pancake inn?” Ollie’s fancy stepped into fairyland. 

“Why not? Much work will make you hungry.” 

“Oh, Grandma, I am so happy,” cried Tillia. “We will figure it 
all out for you.” 

“That is the spirit,” said the old lady seriously. “I knew that I 
could count on the two of you. Now have another cookie and then 
skip along. I hear your mother coming home.” 






AUNT GRETA MARIE ARRIVES 

Aunt Greta Marie and her adopted son were expected to arrive 
at noon. In their best Sunday clothes Ollie and Tillia stood at the 
railway station to receive the guests. 

“Kalmar,” shouted the conductor, “Kal—mar!” 

An official with very bright buttons on his coat strode by. 

“Please, sir,” Tillia stopped him, "‘is this the Express from Stock¬ 
holm?” 

“Indeed, young lady,” bowed the official. “The Stockholm 
Express.” 

“Thank you kindly,” curtsied Tillia. 

“I counted the buttons down his front,” whispered Ollie. “Ten 
buttons! Each had a locomotive on it. Did you see it?” 

“U—huh,” nodded Tillia absently. She was straining her neck 
and her eyes to the limit. Where was her aunt? Why did she not 
hurry a little? The platform grew emptier and emptier of people, 
and Tillia grew more and more excited. “Ollie,” she grabbed at his 
hand, “they have not come! We have missed them! What shall we 
do?” 






“Go home. That’s bad.” 

“All aboard,” called the conductor, “all aboard.” 

The doors went shut. The train pulled out of the station. The 
twins watched the cars with their yellow crowns on them, slide by, 
faster and faster. 

No aunt and no adopted son! 

With wobbly legs and heads bent, they turned to walk home. 

“This is dreadful,” wailed Tillia. “Maybe they are lost? Maybe 
they won’t come at all now?” She felt very much like crying. 

“Perhaps they will arrive later, with another train?” 

Ollie’s bright idea gave Tillia new hope. “I know what to do! 
Here is a telephone booth. I will telephone Mother and ask her if we 
shall wait for the next train.” 

Ollie eagerly agreed. “Do you have money to telephone with?” 

“I think so.” Tillia stuck her fist deep down into her beaded 
handbag. Away on the bottom of it she found a small coin. Quickly 
she stepped into the little blue booth. Ollie watched from the outside 

[ 38 ] 










Ollie watched from the outside 



































and listened to what was going on inside. He could see no more of 
his sister now than her thin legs and a few inches higher up. 

“Beg pardon, operator?” sounded Tillia’s muffled voice. In the 
wink of an eye, you say? Oh—h. Thank you.” 

Ollie bent forward to hear better. 

“Is this you, Mother? Mother! They—have—not—come!” Tillia’s 
voice was choking with tears. “Shall we? What do you say? They 
are there? How? All right. Well come straight home. Good-bye, 
Mother.” Clunk, and she had hung up the receiver. 

“Oh, Ollie, did you ever! ” she cried, her flashing eyes facing him, 
“they arrived before we did. But they did not ride on a train. They 
flew with an airplane all the way from Stockholm. Let’s hurry home.” 

Hair tousled and cheeks aglow, the twins breezed into the family’s 
living room. 

“Oh, I am so sorry, my dears, to have made you wait, plane riders 
that we are!” And Ollie and Tillia felt themselves swallowed up in 
a huge embrace. It smelled deliciously of lilacs. Of a sudden they 
remembered that years ago, Aunt Greta Marie had also smelled of 
lilacs. It was the perfume she used. “How you have grown!” She 
threw her hands together. “But come and meet my son. I have not 
had him very long, you know. He won’t call me Mother, just 
Auntie.” 

A lanky young boy rushed forward and shook hands with the 
bewildered twins. He was dressed in a checkered suit, a checkered 
tie and checkered stockings. His eyes were blue and his hair was red. 
And he might have been about as old as Petter, the young match¬ 
maker. “Bo Peter Henning Persson,” he bowed solemnly. 

“Isn’t he handsome?” twinkled Aunt Greta Marie. ‘'Well, son, 
these are your inherited cousins, Ollie and Tillia Jonsson. If you will 
excuse me, I shall leave you to yourselves for a while, to become 
acquainted. It sounds hopelessly busy from the kitchen. You may 
undo the gifts, son,” and the door closed behind her. 

[40] 


Ollie was the first one to speak. He gazed into his brand-new 
cousin’s blue eyes. “Kindly tell us your first name again. I did not 
understand it. What must we call you, please?” 

“Bo!” exclaimed the boy with a loud, clear voice. 

The twins moved a step back, for it had sounded much like “boo” 

“Bo Peter Henning Persson.” He showed his splendid white teeth. 
“Bo, for short.” 

For a moment the three regarded one another silently, and then 
they burst out laughing. With that the ice was broken forever after. 

“Please, come into our playroom,” invited Tillia. “We’ll show 
you Ollie’s matchbox collection. What do you collect?” 

“Stones,” replied Bo promptly. “Crystal and cat’s eye and quartz 
and amber, and what have you.” 

Lightly he gripped a plump parcel with his left hand and a slender 
suitcase with his right hand. “We will open them after awhile,” he 
promised, as he carefully put them into a corner. 

“These are my match boxes.” With pride Ollie pointed to the 
rows and rows of match boxes on the shelves. They stood there with 
their labels to the front, and no two were alike. 

“I have four hundred and seventeen boxes now,” explained Ollie. 
“Petter gave those very, very tiny ones to me. I love them best.” 

“He dusts his collection every day,” added Tillia, “and he tries to 
keep the different countries together.” 

“It is a marvellous and neat collection,” praised Bo, his eyes roam¬ 
ing over the boxes. “You will have to build a glass house for your 
pets some day.” 

“I will,” said Ollie. “Here is a rocker, Bo. Please, sit down.” 

“Thanks.” He flung himself on to it. Then he put his right foot 
on his left knee. Ollie and Tillia watched him with shining eyes. 
He had such grown-up, wonderful ways, this cousin of theirs. 

“Ever had the measles?” he asked right now, “being red and itchy 
all over?” 


[41] 




The twins shook their heads in amazement. “Never.” 

“I did,” said Bo. “Recovered from them lately. If I had not had 
the measles I would not be sitting here. Lay in the hospital with them, 
and that’s where Auntie found me. She came to sing for us sick boys. 
And when I was better she took me home with her.” 

“Where did you live before?” ventured Ollie. 

“Not anywhere,” replied Bo. 

“What?” 

“It is this way,” Bo explained. “I have no mother, and my father 
is a rope dancer in a circus.” 

Ollie and Tillia grabbed at their chairs, or they might have fallen 
off. 

Bo was quick to notice their plight. “Don’t worry,” he grinned. 
“He is not in this country any more. He shipped himself to South 
America.” 

“Without you?” exploded Tillia. 

[42] 





ftrdyH (o/fi -v-7 


He put his right foot on his left \nee 














“Of course. I told you that I would not be sitting here if I had 
not had the measles. And I would not have had them, if my father 
had taken me with him to South America.” 

“Do you like it here?” Tillia knew no longer what to think. 

Bo’s eyes sparkled. “Do I! Auntie is an angel. She is marvel¬ 
lously good to me.” He straightened up two inches taller. “But some 
day I shall be somebody, and then I’ll pay her back for all she is doing 
for me now. See?” 

“How?” asked Ollie. “What will you do when you are big?” 

“Do tricks,” was the prompt reply. “I want to be a magician.” 

“Can you do tricks if you want to? Real tricks?” It set the twins’ 
heart a-pattering. Perhaps their newfangled cousin was a magician 
even at this minute, long before he had grown up? 

“Surely, I can do tricks,” said Bo, “but not without making a 
mistake once in awhile. I want to be the best magician in the world, 
or none! So many people do things by halves.” He pursed his lips. 

Ollie and Tillia resolved right there and then to study their A B C’s 
more closely, inside out and upside down. Nobody should see fit to 
count them among the people who did things by halves. 

“When I am big, I want to be a singer,” Tillia started to boast, 
and her heart fluttered. “I won’t do things by halves either, believe 
me! Another Swedish nightingale I want to be called.” 

“How very wonderful!” Bo beamed squarely at her. “Is your 
voice high or low, if I may ask?” 

“High,” said Tillia. 

“Auntie’s is both high and low,” mused Bo. “She is directing the 
Young Girls’ Choir in Stockholm, you know. It is famous.” 

A wild hope shot up from deep within Tillia. If she could ever 
be one of that choir! But Stockholm was far away, and yes, traveling 
cost money, and she had none. Besides, belonging to a famous choir 
might cost money too. 

I do not want to be a nightingale. I want to be a general,” Ollie 
[44] 


loudly interrupted his sister’s thoughts. “A whole one. Not one by 
halves. Petter isn’t one by halves.” 

Bo looked very startled. “Beg pardon?” 

So Ollie explained all over, adding that Petter was the youngest 
matchmaker, a general, in his father’s factory and also that he was his 
very best friend. 

“Oh,” said Bo. He understood more clearly. “But let’s open the 
gifts now,” he suggested, “the biggest one first.” So he began untieing 
and unwrapping the plump parcel in the corner. Ends of string and 
sheets of paper slipped to the floor. At last a piece of light blue pottery 
appeared, in the shape of a large vase. Bo set a lid upon the top of it. 
“A cookie jar,” he proudly declared, “the kind that I would call an 
honest cookie jar. It’s two feet tall. I measured it. Like it?” 

Without waiting for an answer, Bo unlocked his suitcase. With 
hasty fingers he pulled out a bit here and a bit there. “All this has 
come from far-away places where Auntie has been singing,” he told 
his wide-eyed cousins. “Here is a pair of deerskin moccasins from 
Swedish Lapland. And this is a leather watch chain; and this is a 
rainbow apron and what else belongs to a costume. Take this, and this. 
I really cannot say what it is all supposed to be and where it came from. 
We must ask Auntie. She said each one of you should take the piece 
you would most want to own. See? But has your father not come 
home yet? Please, call him and the others, for the taking.” 

Ollie and Tillia ran into the hall. “Father! Mother! Grandma!” 

Meanwhile Bo had sprung to his feet. Restlessly he began pacing 
the floor, back and forth, back and forth. “I hope this is exactly how 
Auntie has meant me to do it?” he murmured to himself. “It does not 
look so well arranged to me—sort of topsy-turvy and confusing!” 



A SWEDISH DINNER PARTY 

It was noontime of the following day. Aunt Greta Marie sat in 
the old pearwood chair by the window, sewing a button on to a snowy 
white shirt. Bo watched her with keen attention. 

“My boy,” said Aunt Greta Marie, “if we are going to take the 
family out to Hagby for dinner, you will just have to wear a white 
shirt with your blue suit. Besides, it is Sunday today, and you do want 
to be dressed like a gentleman, don’t you?” She gave him a beaming 
smile. 

Bo beamed back at her. “Certainly, Auntie. I’ll do anything to 
please you. It’s only—oh, you know how fond I am of my checkered 
suit and those polka dot shirts. They look so jolly and they do not 
show dirt—” 


r 461 























You \now how fond 1 am of my checkered suit' 









“Hush, Bo,” broke in Aunt Greta Marie, “here is your shirt with 
not one button off. Please, finish dressing now. We must be going 
soon.” 

An hour later, five Jonssons and two Perssons sat packed like sar¬ 
dines in a rickety but good-natured taxi cab. On through the streets 
of Kalmar they sped, leaving the castle park to the left, and the old 
part of the town to the right. From then on they drove straight south, 
along the beautiful shore road, by the waters of the Sound. Golden 
beams of sunlight were dancing on the oak and birch trees. 

“Hagby Round Church, ladies and gentlemen,” announced the 
driver as he slowed down his speed. “Fine old church from ancient 
times, with loopholes in the walls, for shooting arrows at one! ” He 
chuckled. “There is another round church, a little back. The tower 
has the form of an onion, point away up high in the air. Want me 
to stop?” 

“We have gone through before,” replied Mr. Jonsson. He turned 
to his guests. “Would you two care to scramble out?” 

'‘We hardly dare,” laughed Aunt Greta Marie. “We are tucked in 
so nicely here.” 

So the driver sped on again, and in a very short while the woodsy 
little town of Hagby was reached. 

Scr-r-runch,” said the brakes, as the taxi halted at the entrance 
to the quaint resort hotel. One after another the Jonssons and the 
Perssons clambered out and stood themselves up on the sidewalk. 
The truth is, they almost tumbled out, so great was the pressure from 
behind. 

“Huff,” said Grandma, smoothing her black silk coat and bonnet. 

“Puff,” said Aunt Greta Marie and Mr. and Mrs. Jonsson, looking 
down on themselves. 

Ha-ha-ha, giggled Ollie and Tillia, poking the pavement with 
their toes. 

Bo pulled at his blue suit, with uneasy fingers. 

[48] 


A uniformed porter rushed forward at this moment. “Any bag¬ 
gage, sir?” he asked stiffly. 

“No. A dinner party.” Mr. Jonsson motioned the ladies and Bo 
to follow the porter. 

In the dining room things looked very inviting. The window sills 
were bright with potted plants and flowers in brass and copper con¬ 
tainers. Handwoven rugs enriched the walls. The tables were spread 
with cloths of homespun linen. And lanterns painted with small rosy 
crayfish, lighted the room. For this was the month of August and 
crayfish time in Sweden. 

At last Aunt Greta Marie had discovered a table in a far corner 
to suit her fancy. “Remember,” she said to the others, “this is Bo’s 
and my party. So please enjoy yourselves hugely!” 

“If you don’t, we shall weep,” teased Bo. 

“Never fear,” laughed Mrs. Jonsson. “We will prove our Viking 
appetites to you.” 

“Fine!” With that Aunt Greta Marie led her party to the long, 
long Bread and Butter Table, in the center of the dining room. Upon 
this table were grouped dozens of dishes, containing food for appetiz¬ 
ers. There were tomatoes and cucumbers and meatballs and reindeer 
meat and sausages and fish of all nations and cheeses of many lands 
and eggs any style. And a cheer for the Swedish mushrooms and 
many another dainty! 

The guests wandered about this long, long Bread and Butter Table, 
picked out what they wanted, ate it and came back for more. 

“See these herrings, Ollie?” snickered Tillia, as she helped herself 
to the pickled kind. “Here are some with tomato sauce on them, and 
here with onion slivers.” 

But Ollie was already walking away from the herrings and to the 
other end of the table. He was heading straight for the baked mush¬ 
rooms which simmered on hot plates. 

Grandma chose a bit of salmon, and a bit of smoked eel and quite 

[ 49 ] 



she twinkled. 

“This cool beer is delicious,” exclaimed Mr. Jonsson, as he emptied 
a glass. Then he ate his sardine on the sweet pumpernickel 
appetizer. 

“And how are you coming along, boys?” Aunt Greta Marie joined 
Bo and Ollie. Both were busy tackling the cheeses of many lands. 
In between those cheeses stood six plump red china ladybugs. They 
were the saltcellars of the long, long Bread and Butter Table. Bo 
turned one upside down and sprinkled salt on something that resem¬ 
bled a carrot. 


[50] 




Both were busy tac\ling the cheeses of many lands 












“It tastes like a radish,” he told Aunt Greta Marie, as if he could 
read her thoughts. “Try one.” 

So she did. “You are right,” she agreed and poured herself a cup 
of coffee from the black and white china pot in the shape of a cat. 

“This pot looks like Jonas at home,” reflected Ollie. 

Finished with the appetizers, the party sat down at their table 
in the corner, to begin with the regular dinner. Bo seated himself 
at the foot, with Tillia to his right and Ollie to his left. 

“When I was in America, no appetizers ever were served with the 
meals,” declared Aunt Greta Marie. “It was a treat to be back in 
Sweden after some months away.” 

“Do they eat herrings in America?” asked Ollie curiously. 

“Very rarely,” laughed his aunt. 

“Maybe America is the place for you, Ollie?” suggested Bo. 

“Do they make Swedish matches in America?” continued Ollie 
quite undisturbed. “I do not have a box from America in my col¬ 
lection.” 

“Indeed, they do,” replied Aunt Greta Marie. 

“This soup tastes exactly the way my mother used to make it,” 
broke in Mrs. Jonsson. “We called it Carpenter Soup, because of the 
many coarse vegetables swimming around in it.” 

“Ah, here come the crayfish,” sing-songed Tillia, as the waitress 
brought seven little bowls on a tray. Each bowl was filled to the rim 
with the pink dainty. 

By and by thin shells and tiny claws were heaped upon each plate, 
for the more crayfish eaten, the more shells and claws had to be put 
aside. 

“Last year I had my crayfish dinner in the open air restaurant of 
the Outdoor Museum,” said Aunt Greta Marie. “It is a fine place, 
with Stockholm and the waterways lying far below at your feet. Oh, 
Ollie,” she winked at him, “how would you like to travel to Stock¬ 
holm some day? I could show you the palace of the Match Company, 

[ 52] 


with the marble fountain in the courtyard. At the palace they have a 
great collection of match boxes, including the first box that was ever 
made in Sweden. All sizes and all kinds are there, with thousands 
of different labels on them.” 

It set Ollie’s heart to dancing in delight. “When I am a general, 
I’ll save enough money to travel to Stockholm,” he declared. “I might 
even try to work right there for awhile! ” 

“Well, well, son,” Mr. Jonsson sounded a gentle warning. “Re¬ 
member the old saying: Abroad is good, but home is better.” 

Ollie bent his head away down over the pink crayfish. He ate 
and he wondered. 

“How I wish I really could become a singer and live in Stockholm,” 
Tillia whispered to Bo. 

“You will, won’t you?” He glanced at her sharply. “If you are 
very, very fond of something, you must stick to it and work for it 
until it comes true. You must never, never give up.” 

Tillia gazed at her cousin with admiration and said nothing. 

So Bo painted the future for her in rosy colors. His food cooled on 
his plate, but he scarcely noticed it. “You could stay with us, and 
Auntie could give you singing lessons. And perhaps she would have 
you belong to her choir, if you are very good. Believe me, it is fun 
to live in Stockholm with Auntie! She would let me take you to the 
Outdoor Museum, away up high above the city. It feels so queer to 
walk about in the park, meeting with strange animals and people— 
with honest to goodness Lapps, for instance.” 

“Aren’t they made of wax?” asked Ollie doubtful. 

“Who? The Lapps? Dear me, no.” Bo shook his head. “They 
are real people, dressed in their native costumes. The cottages and the 
farms are fixed up exactly as they were in ancient times, inside and 
out. There is a jolly old fiddler too, Tillia. You could wear your new 
costume from Auntie, and we could dance! Boys and girls are danc¬ 
ing there the whole summer long. And—” 

[ 53 ] 



“Please Bo, be so good and help yourself to the gravy,” interrupted 
Grandma’s mild voice, “and then pass the boat on.” 

“I beg your pardon,” Bo smiled absently, as he lifted the gravy 
boat with his left hand and the gravy ladle with his right hand. But 
his eyes he kept on Tillia, and on Tillia only. “We must go to the 
outdoor theatre together, Tillia—” 

“Drip-drip-drip-trickle-trick,” it dripped and dripped. 

“Watch out!” cried Ollie and Tillia, but it was too late. Bo’s left 
hand gave an extra jerk and landed an extra splash on his right trou¬ 
sers leg. Gravy! Gravy! Gravy! Gravy, away down the front of 
his blue Sunday-suit. A tiny puddle formed on the floor, between 
his feet. 


[54] 















t 


“Watch out!” cried Ollie and Tillia 















“Great Peter! ” Hot waves chased up and down Bo’s spine. The 
next second his far and near neighbors at the table jumped up. And 
in another second they were busy trying to wipe him with their pretty 
homespun napkins. 

“Never mind, son. Cheer up,” soothed Aunt Greta Marie. “The 
gravy boats are nasty little things. Their shape is so unhandy.” 

Bo hung his head. He was thinking of his checkered suit at home, 
and how good a suit it was for hiding spots, gravy or no gravy. 

“Here comes the waitress now.” Aunt Greta Marie turned to her. 
“The young gentleman has had a little accident,” she whispered. And 
aloud she said: “You may clear the table and serve the rosehip jelly 
with whipping cream, for our dessert. And bring seven pieces of 
crown cake, if you please.” 

And that was the end of the Perssons’ and the Jonssons’ dinner 
party. 









BO CAN DO TRICKS 


Another week rolled by, and Aunt Greta Marie and her adopted 
son could still be found in Kalmar. It was so easy to get to the place 
and so difficult to leave it. 

Bo had made great friends with Ollie and Petter, and he all but 
turned into a young matchmaker himself. Almost every morning 
Petter gave a longdrawn whistle, as he walked by the Jonsson home, 
on his way to work. For an answer, the two boys would scamper 
down the stairs and then accompany their friend as far as to the 
factory. 

[57 I 



















Mr. and Mrs. Jonsson did not mind it in the least. Whenever 
they spoke of Petter, their eyes twinkled. “He is planting the roots 
of the match business deep down into Ollie’s heart,” they said to each 
other. “Our boy will grow to be a matchmaker, like his father! It 
is a pleasure watching him.” 

And there was Tillia, singing and warbling all day long as nimbly 
as a bird. Aunt Greta Marie gave her a lesson once in awhile. “You 
are very young,” she earnestly impressed upon the girl. “You may so 
easily overstrain your lovely voice and spoil it forever. Take care of it!” 

“I just must sing, I know not why,” came Tillia’s answer, in a 
voice as clear and sweet as silver bells. “It sings inside of me. It will 
not let me stop.” 

She was a truly happy soul, this little Tillia Jonsson, or she could 
not have sung the way she did. 

There came a sunny, golden afternoon. As usual, Tillia was sit¬ 
ting at the piano, singing scales, slowly up and down and down and up. 

The boys had their noses each in a story book. But their ears half 
listened to the soft clear notes floating about in the room. 

“Bo,” called Ollie of a sudden, “do you like pancakes as much 
as I do?” 

Bo raised his head from the story book. “Depends on how much 
you like them,” he said soberly. “I could eat twenty right now. How 
many could you eat?” 

“Twenty-five. Do you like roasted apples too?” 

“Why, Ollie, you make me hungry,” cried Bo and shut his book 
with a bang. “Too bad it isn’t supper time yet. I think I’ll show 
you a thing or two meanwhile. Do you have a box of matches handy?” 

“Who, I?” laughed Tillia. She closed the piano lid and joined 
the boys. “I will ask Mother for one.” 

In a minute she returned with a new, filled box. 

Bo took eight matches from it. “Half of twelve is—what?” he 
blinked. 


[58] 



'Half of twelve is — what?” he blinked 




























“Six,” said Ollie, and “Six,” said Tillia. 

Bo shook his head. “It is seven,” he announced, laying out a neat 
pattern in Roman numerals, like this: 

V/ 11 

Ollie and Tillia feared they had not heard right. 

“It is easy.” With a sweep of his hand, Bo removed the lower 
half of the letters. “See? Isn’t this a seven? And isn’t it half of the 
twelve as it first looked?” 

The twins’ admiration rose by leaps and bounds. “A trick!” they 
shouted. “He is doing tricks for us! Please, show us another one.” 

Bo was very pleased to do another trick. In a hoarse magician’s 
voice he started talking to the matchbox, which rested on the top of 
his hand. “Stand up. I tell you to stand up!” And the box raised 
itself and stood on end. 

The twins shrieked with delight. 

“Now hang on that door,” Bo commanded the match box. He 
set it against the wood and gave it a few strokes. There it hung as 
though in a holder! 

“Who is the stronger of you two?” Bo went on blustering. “You, 
Ollie?” 

“Why?” Of a sudden Ollie had grown suspicious. 

This in turn put Bo into a teasing mood. “Oh—h,” he jested, “I 
might want to fight you with my fists and give you a blue nose!” 

“I am not afraid,” flashed Ollie. “My father is a matchmaker, 
and yours is not. Wait until I am one myself!” 

For a moment Bo stared at Ollie as if he had seen a ghost. Then 
he grinned from ear to ear. “Great Peter, this is too deep for me! 
A fight and a blue nose—what have they to do with matchmakers? 
Great, great Peter! Oh—h! ” 

Ollie was beginning to wonder himself whatever had made him 
[ 60 ] 


say such a thing, when Tillia helped him out. “He just is so proud 
of his father, she eagerly reasoned. “You are, Ollie, aren’t you?” 

He had barely nodded his head for an answer, when Tillia 
rushed on: ‘ But I am stronger than he is anyway. Let me try the 
trick, Bo, please!” 

“All right,” said Bo. “But give Ollie first chance this time. You 
may try after him. Clear the table for me, please.” 

With deft fingers he removed the drawer from the box, emptied 
it of matches and set the cover on its side. He then placed the drawer 
on end, upon the side of the cover. “Ho, young fellow,” he shouted 
boisterously, “use your fists and show that you are a man. Smash 
these things to bits, if you can.” 

“Bang!” And Ollie’s fist landed hard on the table, while the cover 
and the drawer flew away from his hand, as soon as he had struck 
them. 

“I thought you were not strong enough. It looks easy, but—still 
want a try, Tillia?” 

“U—huh.” 

So Bo built up his box and drawer once more, and Tillia tried 
her best to show that the trick was no trick after all. But she did not 
succeed. What had happened to Ollie’s fist, also happened to her own. 
It merely hit the table, and the box and drawer jumped aside. 

The twins gazed at Bo in round-eyed wonder. “How and when¬ 
ever did you learn to do these tricks?” they marvelled. 

“From a book I read, when I had the measles,” was the answer. 
“The measles are not the worst that may come to a fellow. They give 
you plenty of time to figure out matters.” Bo’s face took on a far¬ 
away look. “When I was in the hospital I used to color matches red 
and blue and green, and sometimes golden. Golden matches! They 
were so pretty and fine to do tricks with. Once, when Auntie came 
to sing for us boys, I gave her a whole box of golden matches, for a 
keepsake.” 

[ 61 ] 





“Golden matches?” the words rang and questioned in Ollie’s head. 
His mind set out to play with them. A golden match—the golden 
match, golden, golden— 

Faster and faster went his thoughts. They almost stumbled over 
each other. And then of a sudden he knew. The Golden Match must 
be the name of their pancake inn! Of course, that’s what it must be. 
And he, Ollie, had invented it! 

“I have to see Grandma,” he announced and bounded out of the 
door. A few minutes later he returned with this message: “Grandma 
is going to have a meeting before supper, but not a secret one. It is 
about pancakes. Everybody may listen to it, except Father, because he 
is working.” 


[62] 











“Grandma is going to have a meeting before supper 





At this moment light footsteps could be heard from the hall, and 
almost immediately Aunt Greta Marie rushed into the room. Her 
eyes flashed and her cheeks glowed. She sank upon a chair and rocked 
with laughter. 

Grandma and Mrs. Jonsson entered, at a loss of what to make of 
such a burst of merriment. 

“What is the matter, Auntie ?” Bo asked, and laughed too. 

“It’s—oh, it is the gymnastics I took,” was her chuckling explana¬ 
tion. “I tell you, they dragged me through the heartiest course of 
gymnastics I ever experienced.” 

“What did they do with you?” 

“They hacked my head and they brushed it and they played piano 
on it. And they pommeled me in just the right places. And then I 
had to do head-rolling and neck-raising and screw-twisting. But here 
is the name of the best exercise yet, if I remember it right. It is called 
Half-wing-half-stride-high-ride-fall-turn-sitting-standing up, or some¬ 
thing like it.” 

“Are you very tired?” There was great feeling in Mrs. fonsson’s 
voice. “It does not sound so good to me the way they overworked 
on you.” 

“But I asked for it,” smiled Aunt Greta Marie. “And it was such 
fun, such fun! ” 










ABOUT A PANCAKE INN 

Grandma was bustling about in a restless fashion. Under her 
arm she held the blue velvet album, which hid her precious recipes 
between its covers. 

“Yes,” she decided to herself, “I should start the ball rolling.” 
Still, she turned a doubtful face to Aunt Greta Marie. “I wonder,” 
she said, “if you would prefer a rest to our before-supper meeting?” 

“A meeting, and I resting?” cried Aunt Greta Marie. “Impos¬ 
sible!” 

Grandma gave a wistful sigh, and then she began. “The thing is 
that the twins and I have worked out a plan, but the plan needs your 
approval. See this album here?” She passed it to Aunt Greta Marie. 
“Look inside of it, and you will understand why Grandma bakes bet¬ 
ter pancakes than most people around here ” 

[65] 



Oh’s and ah’s and questioning glances wandered back and forth 
between Aunt Greta Marie and its owner. 

“Some time ago,” continued Grandma, “this family thought of 
something of which other people have thought much and long before 
them: To take a vacation! In order to earn the necessary money, 
we should like to open a small pancake inn.” 

For a whole half-minute it was so still in the room that they all 
could have heard a pin drop. Then shouts of glee went up. 

“A brave and fine idea! ” Aunt Greta Marie and Bo clapped their 
hands. “Think of it, to swim in pancakes, so to speak. Do tell us 
more about it.” 

“We’ll serve Grandma’s Princess’ pancakes and coffee,” beamed 
Tillia. “See? Nothing else.” 


[66] 










"We should li\e to open a small pancake inn” 




































“But where? In what room? Not here in the house?” Mrs. 
Jonsson felt at a loss, and yet she could not help but enjoy the plan. 

Tillia looked blankly at her grandmother. “Wouldn’t the house 
be all right?” she asked, “maybe here, in the living room?” 

Grandma held the girl’s hand. “What about your playroom? It 
is large and airy and altogether very suitable.” 

Tillia bowed her head. A pang shot through her heart. She loved 
this room of theirs so dearly, even more than Ollie did. 

“Don’t tell me now,” whispered Grandma. “Think it over, both 
of you.” 

“What are you going to name your inn?” Bo wanted to know. 

Here was Ollie’s chance. Like a jack-in-the-box he jumped from 
his chair. It seemed to him that he had waited a long time for this 
question. So now he planted himself in front of his cousin. “Don’t 
you know what it is going to be called?” he spluttered. “It is going 
to be called The Golden Match! And you did it. I mean, you made 
me invent it, because you painted matches golden when you had the 
measles. See?” 

Bo’s face lit up away to the roots of his red hair. “Ollie,” he 
shouted, “it is great! ” In his excitement he slapped Ollie’s shoulder. 
“Golden pancakes and golden coffee—what a golden match. Isn’t it 
a glorious name for a pancake inn, Auntie and Grandma?” 

“Very proper indeed,” they agreed. 

“Such an adventurous idea,” said Aunt Greta Marie. “Shake 
hands with your old aunt, twins. I promise that Bo and I will be in 
town on your grand little opening day.” 

‘ Couldn’t you take Mother with you to Stockholm tomorrow?” 
Tillia burst out, half in earnest, half in fun. “Then we could surprise 
her with the inn.” 

Did you ever!” cried Aunt Greta Marie. “We are simply pop¬ 
ping with ideas. What do you say to it, son? Shall we steal your 
aunt and keep her with us for awhile?” 

[ 68 ] 


“Perhaps she need not be stolen,” replied Bo dryly. “Perhaps she 
would come without it?” 

So Aunt Greta Marie and Bo invited Mrs. Jonsson on the spot to 
spend a fortnight with them in Stockholm. 

This is too much for a poor woman,” groaned Mrs. Jonsson. “I 
could not leave this house tomorrow if I wanted to. But thank you 
just the same.” 

“The day after tomorrow, then.” Bo was quick in finding a way 
out. And bright-eyed he added, “Very well. You will fly with us.” 
He had decided for her. 

Mrs. Jonsson put her hands to her ears. “Come, help me in the 
kitchen, every one of you,” she laughed, “and no more talk.” 

But as they turned to march into the hall, Mr. Jonsson stood in 
the doorway. No one had heard him. 

“How do you do,” he called out pleasantly. “And what is this 
mirth about, may I ask?” 

“The young ones will tell you,” advised Grandma. “We are late 
with our supper and must hustle, if you will excuse us.” 

So Mr. Jonsson made himself comfortable in the grandfather chair, 
and Ollie, Bo and Tillia climbed all over him. They laughed and 
they chatted and made a jolly time of it. 

And all that Mr. Jonsson did, was to listen. He was a splendid 
listener. He only spoke when he was spoken to. 

After quite some time of listening, they started raining questions 
down upon him, and he answered every one. 

“Do you like The Golden Match for a name, Father?” asked 
Ollie. “Do you like it very much?” 

“Very much indeed.” 

“Father, must we really give up our playroom, Ollie and I?” 
Tillia’s throat felt tight. 

“I believe so. That is, if you want to step into this pancake ven¬ 
ture in earnest.” 


[69] 



“Auntie says it is an adventurous idea,” Bo put in wisely. “Do 
you think so too? I mean, do you think you can have a vacation from 
it next summer?” 

“That depends,” smiled Mr. Jonsson, “that depends upon coffee 
and pancakes.” 

“May Mother go to Stockholm, and may we surprise her with the 
inn?” 

“Of course, of course.” 

“Grandma says that she will be the cook. But may I flop the pan¬ 
cakes round for her, in the pan?” Ollie hastened to reserve first rights. 

But even before Mr. Jonsson could refer him to Grandma in 
person, Tillia begged his advice in the matter of a signboard. “Please, 
Father, will you help us paint an enormous golden match? We do 
need a signboard for our house, you see. We could paint a cup of 
coffee on it and a pancake-tower!” 

[70] 















-Vc- 


“Please, Father, will you help us paint an enormous golden match?” 











“Supper is ready,” sounded Grandma’s voice, “supper is ready.” 

Mr. Jonsson rose from his chair. “I shall be glad to help you in 
my spare time,” he said. “Very glad. A-hem. Extraordinary. And I 
should like to paint the signboard for you. I shall allow this sign¬ 
board to dangle in front of my house. But you must not expect much 
more of your old father. For remember, he is a matchmaker, and not 
a pancake baker.” 





































































BUGS ON THE BUSHES BUYS PAINT 


On a sunny afternoon two days later, Mrs. Jonsson flew northward 
to Stockholm. She travelled in a red and yellow airplane, together 
with Aunt Greta Marie and Bo Peter Henning Persson. 

Forlornly, Ollie and Tillia lingered behind the fence of the vast 
airport. They craned their necks and they raised themselves on tip¬ 
toes. And they waved and waved their hands after the roaring, soar¬ 
ing flying machine against the sky. At last they thought it useless 
to wave any longer. A strange emptiness filled their hearts. 

“Gone,” said Ollie and tried to look as if he did not mind. 

“Gone,” said Tillia and tried a brave little smile. For once she 
did not feel a bit like singing. 

[73l 










They turned about on their heels and almost stumbled over the 
boots that belonged to Bugs on the Bushes. 

“Quite forgot that old Bugs was standing here, now did you not?” 
He shook a threatening finger. “But it is all right. I know what 
parting stands for. It stands for something sad. But you should not 
worry,” he rambled on. “You have much on your brains these days, 
what with establishing that pancake inn. Wasn’t it a treat for your 
mother to be invited for an airplane ride. Yes, yes, your aunt is a 
real lady and the checkered young gentleman a true cavalier.” 

“Bo is not checkered,” said Ollie in a hurt voice. “It’s only his 
suit that’s checkered. He has a blue suit too, and that one isn’t 
checkered.” 

Of a sudden Tillia had to laugh. “It’s the one he spilled the gravy 
on!” 

“Did he?” mumbled Bugs. He scarcely could believe it of the 
young gentleman. 

By this time the horsecart that had brought them to the airport, 
had been reached. “Climb up,” called Bugs, “up on the seat, both 
of you.” 

And so the three rode back into the town, bumpety-bumpety-bump. 

In front of a two-story house Bugs stopped his horse. He stepped 
into the back of the cart and selected two bunches of flowers from a 
tub. One bunch was asters and the other chrysanthemums. 

“Kindly keep the reins, while I leave these.” Bugs slid on to the 
pavement. “I have delivered flowers to the old lady in this house 
every Thursday afternoon for seven years,” he proudly explained. 
“It’s like delivering meat or groceries. Ha-ha-ha—a pound of chry¬ 
santhemums and half a pound of asters. Well, I’ll hustle.” 

With a final nod Bugs disappeared through the dark entrance 
door. The twins snuggled closer together, and they gripped the reins 
tighter. Tillia’s left fist held the one end, and Ollie’s right fist held 
the other. They both gazed fixedly at the horse’s pointed ears. 

[ 74 ] 



“Quite forgot that old Bugs was standing here” 







“Bugs will let us have thirteen tables out of his attic,” said Tillia, 
“for the pancake inn. He told me.” 

“Enough chairs too?” Ollie was on his guard. 

“Of course. He will let us have two chairs with each table. That 
makes—that makes thirty-six chairs. And he will give us more to 
store away in the basement, for unexpected crowds, he says.” 

“Twice thirteen is twenty-six, not thirty-six,” corrected Ollie. 

“All right, twenty-six then. It’s a lot of chairs anyway.” 

“Why will he give us thirteen tables? Why not twelve?” Ollie 
thought it very queer. 

Tillia puckered her forehead. “He said that twelve is only a dozen, 
but that thirteen is a lucky number. I do not know exactly why.” 

“I don’t either.” They both were troubled. 

“I hear something. Listen!” Tillia pricked up her ears, and so 
did Ollie and the horse. 

Dull, scraping sounds came nearer and nearer. And finally an 
old, old man showed up at the corner. An odd instrument hung by 
a strap around his neck. The twins began to wriggle on their seats, 
and the horse thumped the cobbles with his hoof. Neither of them 
dared move any farther, but each wished that Bugs would appear, 
and appear quickly. 

“What is he playing on?” whispered Ollie. 

“I do not know,” said Tillia. “It looks like a fiddle, but it isn’t 
one. It sounds, oh, it sounds miserable, Ollie! I think I must hold 
my ears! ” 

“Please don’t,” begged the less musical Ollie. “He is watching 
us, see? He is going to talk to us!” 

Their fists closed still tighter over the reins. 

“How do you do, children,” muttered the old, old man in an old, 
old voice. He stopped by the cart. “Fine weather for music, isn’t it?” 
He kept playing away busily with his scraping bow, “waiting for 
somebody?” 


[ 76 ] 


“U—huh,” nodded the twins, “for Bugs on the Bushes. What are 
you playing on, please?” 

I am playing on my key harp. What did you say you are waiting 
for?” 

“For Bugs on the Bushes,” repeated Ollie and Tillia, and then 
they cried, “there he comes!” 

Bugs hastened his steps. “Have you collected company?” he 
grinned, a little uneasy. “Excuse my delay, if you please. I just sipped 
a cup of coffee with the lady.” He slipped a copper coin into the old 
man’s bulging coat pocket. 

“Thank you, thank you, sir!” With his bow he pointed at the 
children. “They never saw a key harp before.” He snickered. “They 
asked me what I was playing on!” 

So the old man together with Bugs explained whatever they knew 
of the ancient instrument. “It is made of hollowed pine, pretty much 
like a fiddle. See? It has many strings. And these here are the keys 
that must be pressed. And when the bow slides over the strings, the 
music is made. See? Fine to dance after, around the Maypole, on 
midsummer’s eve.” 

“That’s all,” finished Bugs, as he climbed up on the cart and 
drove off. 

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” the old, old man called after them, 
in his old, old voice. 

“And now we are going to buy paint,” announced Bugs. 

“Paint?” 

“Yes, paint.” Bugs seemed to enjoy himself hugely. 

“What for?” 

“For thirteen little tables and for twice as many chairs,” chuckled 
the gardener. “They need new dresses.” 

“Oh, Bugs!” cried Ollie and Tillia, delighted. “We know! May 
we help you paint them?” 

“Upon my word, you may not,” teased Bugs. 

[ 77 1 


'You must! 


The twins laughed aloud. 

“You would not expect me to do the whole business myself, would 
you?” he grumbled. “By the way, what color do you want for your 
pancake inn furniture?” 

“Oh, any color.” Neither Ollie nor Tillia had thought about this. 

“What? Any color!” snorted Bugs. “Any color is no color. We 
can’t paint anything any color. Black, white, red, green, blue, yellow 
—those are honest colors.” 

The twins glanced sideways at their old friend. Had they made 
him cross? But no, his eyes twinkled. It was only in fun that he had 
snorted so. 

“What color have the tables and the chairs now?” Ollie ventured 
carefully. 

“This is what I call a sensible question.” Bugs beamed his sunniest 
smile. “Blue they are. Swedish flag-blue. So if you could come down 
to blue, one flimsy coat of paint might be enough. Besides, blue and 
gold is a fine match, I dare say.” 

“Should we not ask Grandma or Father first?” asked Tillia. 

“I spoke to your Grandma,” replied Bugs calmly. “She said that 
blue would be lovely, but that it was up to you to decide. She told 
me how you two had sacrificed your big playroom. And she thought 
it mighty fine of you. ‘The whole idea of working for a vacation is 
theirs,’ your Grandma said, ‘and the room is theirs and really, the 
whole pancake inn will be theirs. We others are just helping to make 
the wheel spin round.’ And her eyes glimmered and sparkled with— 
with light.” Bugs passed a hand over his forehead, for he had almost 
made a mistake and said “with tears.” 

“Of all the stars in heaven,” he exclaimed. For there was Tillia, 
swallowing and sobbing as if the world was an ocean of sadness! 

“Naw! Naw!” cried Bugs in dismay, and with his clumsy paw 
he stroked the girl’s hand. “What, Ollie too? Whatever has come 
over the two of you?” 


[ 78 ] 









“He cries,” sputtered Tillia, “ ’cause Bo’s gone away, with his 
tricks, and mother too—oo—oo.” 

“And she cries,” quivered Ollie, “ ’cause Aunt Greta Marie’s gone, 
and they can’t sing any mo—o—o—ore.” 

Poor Bugs was at his wits’ end. He almost drove past the paint 
and varnish store. A very sudden “Whoa!” made the horse stand 
still. This made the twins return to common sense. 

“We are sorry, Bugs,” they said. “Excuse us, please. We won’t 
do it again.” 

“That is much better,” cried Bugs, and a stone fell off his chest. 
“Climb down, my dears, and we shall buy a gallon of blue paint and 
three little thin brushes and three big fat brushes.” 








PETTER HAS THE MEASLES 

A week had passed. Every day in the afternoon, the twins 
painted chairs and tables blue. They also painted little wooden 
flagposts golden. Thirteen golden flagpoles to stand on thirteen blue 
tables. And Grandma had bought thirteen silken Swedish flags. 

Every night after supper Mr. Jonsson busied himself in his special 
corner. First he designed, and then he colored the signboard. It was 
a proud piece of work, this signboard in the shape of a huge match. 
A brown and yellow painted pancake-tower, ten pancakes high, hung 
by a chain from the head of the golden match. A steaming cup of 
coffee hung from the other end. 


[ 81 ] 




Bugs on the Bushes had made a gift of two dozen pots and tubs 
with flowers and ferns. And he had fastened a giant of a mirror on 
the wall opposite the door. So now Ollie’s and Tillia’s former play¬ 
room looked twice as bright and large as it had ever been. 

When Petter, the young matchmaker, caught wind of the pan¬ 
cake inn plan, he appeared with a tiny glass showcase. It had a tricky 
sliding door. “Just a small gift,” he had called it. 

And so arrived the day before the day before the day before Grand 
Opening Day on Sunday. And with it something nobody would have 
dreamed of happened: Petter caught the measles! 

He had caught them he knew not where, but he was very sure 
he had them. Yes indeed, it could be nothing else, what with the 
sniffles that could not be turned off, and a skin that ached and burned 
and prickled. 

But there were four good reasons that made it especially bad for 
Petter to lie in a dark room and be ill. First: Petter had hardly known 
a sick day in his life, and so he worried about dying from the measles. 
Second: His friend Ollie was not allowed to visit with him and chase 
the gloom away. Third: Grand Opening Day of the pancake inn 
was just around the corner, and he would be lying in bed. And 
fourth—the very worst: He had to stay away from the match factory! 
Who, who in all the world was there to fill his place? 

“No one,” he groaned. “There is no general like me,” and tears 
as big as peas rolled down the poor boy’s cheeks. 

But of a sudden an idea sprang up in his mind. “Ollie! Ollie 
knows almost as much about my work as I do myself, so much I 
talked to him about it!” Quickly Petter dried his tears and called 
for his mother. 

When he had explained his plan to her, he begged: “Please, Mother 
dear, walk over to the Jonssons and speak to them about it. It will 
make me feel much better, and maybe I won’t die then.” 

The little lady, who was his mother, sighed. “You must not say 

[82] 



Vetter appeared with a tiny glass showcase 














































such things. Promise to rest meanwhile, and I shall do as you wish.” 

So she put on her wrap and her bonnet and scurried down Long 
Street. 

Grandma Jonsson was very surprised when she saw Petter’s mother 
in the doorway. “Do come in,” she invited her, “and I shall pour us 
some coffee. It is simmering on the stove.” 

“I am a bit rushed,” replied the little lady. “But I’ll be happy to 
accept a cup of coffee, thank you. It does a body good. You see, it is 
about Petter I came. He sent me.” 

“Petter!” exclaimed Grandma Jonsson alarmed. “I hope nothing 
serious has happened?” 

Just then Ollie entered the room. He said a polite how-do-you-do 
to the visitor and sat down at the very edge of the couch. 

“He is ill, my boy. What do you say to that, Ollie? The measles 
he has caught!” 

“The measles!” Ollie and Grandma called out. 

“A big boy of his age having the measles?” Grandma shook and 
shook her head. “Are you sure?” 

“Oh, yes. No doubt. And it is bad, because Petter has outgrown 
his baby shoes. The older you are the harder the measles are on you.” 
She shrugged her frail shoulders. 

“He is a strong boy. He will be over it fast.” Grandma gave her 
a hopeful smile. 

“I wish Bo were here,” whispered Ollie, excited. “He knows all 
about the measles.” 

The little lady bent very low over her coffee cup. Back and forth 
and round and round she stirred in it with her silver spoon. “Petter is 
worried,” she faltered. “He cannot be on duty in the factory, and he 
wondered—he wants me to find out, if Ollie—if Ollie would work in 
his place these days? It is asking much, I know.” 

“Asking much?” thought Ollie, and his heart skipped a beat. “It’s 
wonderful! Nothing could be more wonderful.” 

[84] 


He was ready to bounce off head over heels. “I am going,” he 
announced. I can’t wait. Thank you, and tell Petter I thank him, 
please. Good-bye.” 

Not so fast, young man,” and Grandma snatched him by his 
coattail. “Let’s think first. Why don’t we telephone your father?” 
She passed a hand over her forehead. “Yes, I should think that 
wisest.” 

“But Grr—rrrandma!” Ollie objected earnestly. “I know the 
Chief. Petter showed him to me once. I must see him in his office. 
Please let me go and talk to him.” Ollie felt very businesslike. 

Petter’s mother gave him a friendly nod. “Thank you, Ollie,” 
she said simply. “You are a good friend. I shall tell Petter. And now 
I must hustle and npt keep him worrying any more.” Whereupon 
she shook hands with the Jonssons, said thank-you-good-bye, and left. 

“My hands are clean and my face is too. I’ll just have to leave 
now,” pleaded Ollie. “I shall be back for luncheon, or for supper 
maybe. Farewell.” 

Her small grandson seemed so grown-up of a sudden! Grandma- 
could not take her eyes off him. “All right, dear,” she said at last. 
“I hope all will be well with you. Remember to be very courteous to 
people you meet. Comb your hair before you enter the office, and 
wipe your feet on the mat, and shake the dust from your shoes. Don’t 
talk unless you are asked a question. And if someone does speak to 
you, be sure to look him squarely into the eyes. Watch out for your 
clothes, and keep your hands out of your pockets.” Then Grandma 
Jonsson caught her breath. 

Ollie stood with lips wide apart. This was the longest speech he 
had ever heard her make. He waved a final, swift good-bye to her 
and disappeared. 

Not much more than an hour later, the telephone rang out in the 
hall, and Grandma answered it. “Oh, yes, Ollie! I am so glad for 
you. As a general in Petter’s place? How much did you say you 

[ 8 5 1 


were earning? Well, well! For a whole week? Good thing that your 
father is pleased. You won’t be home until tonight. All right. Thank 
you for calling, big boy. I am proud of you.” 

Grandma Jonsson hung up the receiver. Slowly she walked over 
to the old pearwood chair, by the window. And then she sat very 
still for awhile. “Little Ollie quite grown up,” her thoughts trailed 
wistfully. “I must bake a cake and cook a nice supper, for tonight. 
Tillia must help me. She knows what Ollie likes best—the merry little 
matchmaker! But I wonder where she is?” 































GRAND OPENING DAY 

And so at last the Sunday arrived that was to be different from 
any other Sunday the Jonssons had known: Grand Opening Day of 
The Golden Match Pancake Inn! 

The house was clad in holiday garb from the flagpole to the 
kitchen. Everywhere it gleamed and glittered and sparkled. Anna 
and Nanna, the two help-madames, were assisting Grandma in the 
kitchen. Bugs on the Bushes was waiting on tables. And if Petter 
had not had the measles, he would have done the honors at the door. 
Now Bo did them instead. He had returned from Stockholm the 


[87] 















night before, together with Mrs. Jonsson and Aunt Greta Marie. 

Early in the morning he had started bowing. “How do you do* 
ladies and gentlemen, how do you do. And how do you do again.” 
Late in the afternoon he still was bowing, and he still enjoyed his task. 

The air was filled with the rarest fragrance. First it smelled of 
pancakes, and then of coffee, and then of stewed mushrooms, and of 
apples, and of plums, and cherries, and of a hundred kinds of berries. 

Dressed in holiday costumes, Ollie and Tillia felt as if they were 
living in fairyland. Ever since breakfast they had been tasting pan¬ 
cakes, as many as they wished. And when they were not tasting 
pancakes, they were bowing and curtsying and shaking hands. 

“Hm—m,” said a plump, rosy-cheeked pancake-eating lady to 
Tillia, “this idea is delightful. Whoever would have thought it of 
the Jonssons. Hmmmmm! I shall return gladly and often.” 

“Thank you, madam,” curtsied Tillia. “Would you care to help 
yourself to one of our doll-size boxes of matches? There are thirteen 
boxes among them that have a golden match inside. It is a Grand 
Opening Day special. If you should draw such a one, we’ll serve you 
a pancake-tower free, next Sunday. It’s been my brother’s plan from 
the start.” 

“How very wise a plan,” exclaimed the lady, as she eyed the basket 
on the table suspiciously. “Let me see, which box should I take? This 
one? Or this one? I really do not know. Well, I’ll venture this one.” 
And behold, she had ventured right. A tiny gold-colored match stared 
at her from the top layer of the now open box. 

“Such luck!” she cried, delighted. “More luck than I have ever 
had before. Good-bye until next Sunday.” And out she rustled. 

“Please, sir,” said Ollie to a thin, pale gentleman who was ready 
to leave, “would you mind writing your name on this tablecloth, 
with this pencil?” 

“Gladly,” smiled the thin, pale gentleman. “What is the thought 
behind it?” 


[88] 



“It is going to be our merry guest book,” Ollie explained. “My 
sister will embroider your name and all the others, afterwards. It’s 
been my sister’s plan from the start.” 

“A neat little plan indeed,” exclaimed the thin, pale gentleman, 
as he carefully pencilled his name. 

And so the hours of this Grand Opening Day passed pleasantly 
for everyone. 

Ollie felt sprightly and important, and much of the time he walked 
about sticking out his chest. “I am a general,” his whole person 
seemed to breathe, “a general like Petter. And I am glad.” To be 
sure, Petter’s measles would depart one of these days. But Ollie 
pushed such worries far away. Something might happen—without 
hurting Petter—to have the measles stay on awhile longer yet. Right 
now he himself was the youngest matchmaker, he, Ollie Jonsson! 

And Tillia? For the most part she tried to sing away merrily, 
because she felt sad. Aunt Greta Marie would leave tomorrow and 
be gone forever—yes, forever. She would return to Stockholm and 
give singing lessons to everyone, except to herself. Tillia thought she 
could not bear it. A heavy lump rose in her throat. 

Unseeingly, she gazed at the signboard of The Golden Match. “If 
I were rich,” she mused, “I would live in Stockholm with Auntie. 
I would become a choirgirl first and a Swedish nightingale next. 
And I—” 

Of a sudden Tillia’s daydream was torn into shreds. For her eyes 
beheld a real and surprising thing. Nearer and nearer it moved. 
Marching up the street it came—in the shape of boys and girls dressed 
festively. 

As they approached The Golden Match, one after the other stopped 
and went inside. Tillia hastily withdrew. 

A minute later, Bo announced to his astonished family the arrival 
of the Sons and Daughters of the Matchmakers. His voice quivered, 
his ears blushed and his hair stood up on end. 

[89] 


“But Bo!” exclaimed Aunt Greta Marie and the Jonssons. “Has 
anything gone wrong?” 

“Not yet. But they are Petter’s doing,” stammered Bo, “not mine. 
He left word for me to—to take them over from him. If they do 
well, they’ll be the Golden Match Dancers from now on. Petter left 
word. But if they spoil their chances, Petter—well—he will put the 
blame on me!” Bo ran a shaking hand through his red hair. “It’s 
very upsetting to me, very.” 

It sounded odd indeed. 

“Do calm yourself, son. I never saw you like this before.” Aunt 
Greta Marie gave him a soothing pat. “It will be great to watch the 
fun, I know. Don’t they look lovely! We will go in right now.” 

Bo need not have worried for Petter’s sake! For as it happened, 
the Sons and Daughters of the Matchmakers proved to be the grand 
event of Grand Opening Day. 

On the cleared floor of the living room danced twelve boys and 
girls, and the fiddler was the thirteenth. Aunt Greta Marie and Tillia 
joined in the singing of Swedish folk songs after awhile, and no one 
could have had a cozier time. All the music and the gayety of their 
hearts was brought to life. 

People came and people went. Pancake-eating, coffee-drinking 
people they were, who watched the dancers with shining eyes and 
who promised to return. They could not help but stop at The Golden 
Match. It was impossible to pass by. 

Little boys came in and bowed, “We have been very, very good. 
Our fathers let us buy a pancake-tower for a treat.” 

Little girls came in and curtsied, “We have been fine little helpers 
at home. Our mothers sent us to eat as many pancakes as we please.” 

Indeed it looked well and rosy for the inn of The Golden Match! 
Every bit of doubt about it was blown to the four winds. 


[90] 



OLLIE AND TILLIA TAKE THEIR SHARES 

The hour for bedtime was set late that night. And when it 
finally arrived, it was set later yet. 

“Good night,” said the twins looking very wide-awake, “good 
night.” They each shook hands with the family. 

But here stood Aunt Greta Marie and Mrs. Jonsson, who would 
not let go of Tillia’s hand. And there stood Bo and Mr. Jonsson, who 
would not let go of Ollie’s hand. 

[ 9i 1 




Grandma smiled, and her eyes roamed over the group. And then, 
in a most mysterious manner, she pulled two sealed envelopes from 
her embroidered apron pocket. She gave them to each twin and said: 
“Your share in the pancake inn venture.” 

Like two enormous question marks, Ollie and Tillia stared at the 
small neat envelopes in their hands. 

“Open them,” urged Bo. “They won’t bite you.” He almost 
sounded impatient. 

So hasty fingers were put to fumbling and to tearing, and of a 
sudden they held two crisp new paper notes of fifty crowns (Swedish 
money) each, between them. 

“Mother!!” cried Tillia. 

“Father!!” cried Ollie. 

“A—hem.” Mr. Jonsson cleared his throat. “Extraordinary. You 
should be the one to explain, Grandma. After all, without you this 
would not have been possible.” 

“Wouldn’t it?” twinkled Grandma. She was pleased to hear it at 
the end of the day, for she had worked hard and needed encourage¬ 
ment. “I will not keep you wondering much longer.” She nodded 
at the twins. “You see, we each are having a share in the earnings of 
our Golden Match. These bills mark the beginning of your very 
own shares, and you may use them as you see fit.” 

“Oh, Grr—rrandma! Thank you. Thank you,” cried two high, 
excited voices, “you, and everybody else too!” 

“What are you going to do with it?” Bo asked Tillia curiously. 

“Spend it,” she curtsied playfully, “just as soon as I know on 
what.” Her cheeks glowed, and her eyes danced. 

“And you, Ollie?” 

“Save it,” he replied with happy calm. 

“How would you both feel about spending part of your fortune 
on an excursion by boat, to Stockholm?” Aunt Greta Marie proposed 
joyously. “We old folks talked it over this afternoon, and we decided 

[ 92] 


not to say no, if you say yes! You might call it an invitation from two 
Perssons to two Jonssons. And you may stay until Christmas, if you 
like. I must be home on Wednesday, when my Young Girls’ Choir 
starts again.” 

She paused to fix her great blue eyes especially on Tillia. “You 
just must have a try in my choir, my Swedish nightingale. I want to 
find out what you can do. I am giving you a chance, that’s all. But 
you will make the most of it, I know. Will you come with me, 
Tillia?” 

“Oh, will I, Aunt Greta Marie!” cried Tillia, a-tremble with joy. 
“Whatever makes you know so much about other people’s wishes? 
Nothing in all the world do I want more than to become a great 
singer, like you.” And she threw back her head and sang and trilled 
with all her heart: 


“When the wind was blowing, 
I went out a-rowing 
In a little open boat; 

Over to left, 

And over to right, 

And up and down, 

And down and up 
Went she—” 



But what was the matter with Ollie? There he sat huddled up 
in a corner, and was as quiet as a stone. 

“You would not mind spending part of your crowns and coming 

[ 93 ] 











Oh, will 1, Aunt Greta Marie!” cried Tillia 


















with us, now, would you, Ollie?” Aunt Greta Marie bent over him, 
alarmed at his stoniness. 

“I want to stay at home.” 

“Why? Why? Why?” was showered down upon him. 

“I want to,” he repeated. 

“I can show you many tricks in Stockholm,” coaxed Bo. 

“The trip will do you good, dear,” encouraged Grandma and 
Mrs. Jonsson. 

“I think I know what’s on his mind,” said Mr. Jonsson. “I think 
that he is worried over his job at the match factory, with Petter absent. 
Is that it, son?” 

Ollie’s face cleared up like sunshine breaking through the clouds. 
He gave his father an eager, thankful smile and a nod of the head. 

“I shall find someone else, Ollie. No need for you to skip a rare 
vacation,” Mr. Jonsson told him. “Of course, you have done very well. 
In fact, you have worked better than anyone I could imagine at this 
moment. Extraordinary. But Petter will be back on duty soon. 
Meanwhile you take this trip and enjoy yourself.” 

“No.” Ollie shook his head. He shook it very firmly. “May I 
please be a general first? I will save my crowns and spend them later.” 

The others regarded him with a mixture of pride and sadness. 
“Too bad to let this chance slip by,” their faces said. “But his de¬ 
cision is a strong and worthy one. We like him for it.” 

“We men have our troubles to see things through, Ollie!” Mr. 
Jonsson spoke, much moved. “But your day will come, son, and then 
you will be truly thankful.” 

“Shake hands, General Ollie.” Gallantly Bo clicked his heels to¬ 
gether. “You are a fine fellow, believe it or not.” 

“Ding-dong—” and the clock struck midnight. 

“Good-night, General Ollie,” rang through the house. “Good¬ 
night, Swedish nightingale.” 

Then all was still. 




















































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